Alabama, Arkansas, I Sure Love My Maw and Pa...

And so, for the first time in over four months, the post will originate from the left side of the Atlantic.

I headed home early. 

What a trip it was. What a time. 

I've only faced it a few times, but when I'm asked, I revert to the tried-and-true: "It was fantastic."

"Spectacular."

"Incredible."

It's strange, I wasn't expecting to be unable to describe my 2012 like this.

I've gone through "re-entry", I've done this before. Besides, it'll be easier for me to recount my trip because I was partially leading it.

Wrong.

It's more difficult for me to describe all this than 2009 was. 

Meh. You see, that's not a big deal. Why? Because I'm home.

Entering the US again was like exhaling the largest sigh that your lungs are capable of holding. It was as though weight was being sloughed off my shoulders with every step. It's not that I disliked what I had done, or felt burdened by it at all. It was just time to come home.

Man is only capable of living out of a backpack for so long.

Beautifully, and ironically, the Wanderlust eventually turns on its head. It still says "GO!", but it just adds another word:

Go home.

Yes. Please.

General Will...

So what if it's a little sappy?

This is how the people can share their voice with their governments. It's movements that will shape the future. Don't believe me? Take a look at how many Congressmen and women are suddenly aware of who Joseph Kony is.

Government's do listen.

The people finally have the tools to make their words echo in the halls of politicians.

And this is just the kind of thing that should be shouted:

If You Listen...

This was written in my journal 1 month ago. I do not mean for it to represent full truth, or even my opinion on the events in Syria. It was just so incredible for me to be talking to someone about what was going on as we were speaking. You see, Syrians are famous for being tight-lipped about their government and its current affairs. So, take my words not as gospel, simply for what they are. Words of the broken-hearted.

[Note: I have deliberately taken out any personal information about my contact out of respect for him, his safety, and the sensitivity of his words.]

Istanbul   February 4

 He was very nice and hospitable (as always) - and his English is impeccable. 

The most fascinating part was his willingness to discuss the current events of Syria. Once we asked him about it he wouldn't stop talking. There were tears in his eyes as he talked about 6,000 dead -

 "Not just a number. 6,000. That means 6,000 families, brothers, friends"

And his words were marked by the familiar Arabic questioning "for what?"

It was heart-wrenching to not be able to reply with any substance. Through his only-marginally-broken English, he spoke stirring words denouncing killing, demanding freedom, and asking for help. 

"Iran and Russia are friends with Assad. Why? They do not care about the killing. About our people. I don't understand."

What a difficult conversation to leave. I want to ask him so much more about his feelings:

"I know he should be tried - brought to justice - but in my heart I think he deserves the death of Qaddafi."

More about his family:

"Sometimes when I call them on my phone, I can hear guns firing."

And about the future:

"Civil war? Between who? Us Syrians make our country a good place because we look out for each other - not the police, not the government. We love each other."

It is incredible what you can find, if you listen.

Pray for Syria.

Snow

I am watching snow fall silently upon the streets of Istanbul. The Silence of Snow… Thanks for giving that meaning, Pamuk. My typing is the only thing that can be heard apart from the occasional Turkish murmuring. You see, the snow and heavy rain has cut the power in this little café. The refrigerator, the kahve grinder, the oven – it’s all off. Powerless. Silent. These snowflakes are the biggest I’ve ever seen. They fall hard and fast, but their impact is totally unseen among the much more present rain.

The dance of this storm is quite like listening to a symphony. It will increase in speed and size; snowing hard and quick. Then, suddenly, it will slow to almost a strolling pace. Just a slight reminder of the bitter cold above.

The Bosporus is totally indistinguishable from the clouds and fog. And Asia is completely invisible. It is over there. On the other side of that bridge in the distance, that now looks like it ends midway over the water. Only a few miles from the other continent, and yet it feels as far away as if I were back in North America.

Without making a sound, the snow has separated continents, tamed the busyness of the city, and muzzled the bustling noises of 18 million as they stand and watch.

How can one not love the snow?

Incense and Rose

We timidly entered the foyer. Our whispers, despite our best efforts, still reverberated off the cold and gray marble. Should we go in? The priest is singing Vespers. How improper would it be to go in now? I don’t know…

Then, we were startled by a loud thud as the door behind us closed. We looked at the shorter, dark-haired man heading our way. “Tamam? Acık?” We asked with our teeny knowledge of Turkish. “Evet. Evet” He replied and threw open the huge church doors.

The sound of vocal harmony flooded our ears as the grandeur of the sanctuary was revealed.  Gold. Marble. Limestone. Silver. Massive columns and portraits. All twelve apostles numbered among uncountable Saints. The song, totally in Greek, meant nothing to us, except it was gorgeous. The divinity of the words was impossible to miss, despite not knowing more than 10 Greek words.

But all of those senses paled in comparison to the most unmistakable marker that you are now in the presence of the Almighty: Incense filled every corner as we sat, and prayed, in the Aya Trinada Greek Orthodox Church.

-

Our pace noticeable slowed as we stepped through the large, foreboding gates garnished with gilded Arabic calligraphy. Ok, do I take my shoes off now? Or should I wait. It’s Friday, should I go in yet, or will I be shooed out during prayer? I don’t know…

Then, suddenly. Keaton opened the canvas flap into the mosque. He immediately found the face he was looking for. “Hello! Merhada, Ibrahim!” The aged, mustached groundkeeper smiled wider than seemed possible. “Hudson! Hudson!” Ibrahim greeted Keaton in the traditional Turkish way, but did it as if he was seeing his grandson again. Throwing open his arms, he did the same to Peter and I.

We were given a tour of the impressive Tophane mosque. The intricate painted tiles shone in the dim lights. Medallions with massive Arabic words proudly presented the names of those holy forerunners. The only sound were the occasional mumble of prayer and Ibrahim’s proud voice explaining, in some twisted Turkish-German-English the incredible history of the building. We were then left at the back sitting in awe of the domes, arches, and friezes left by Mimar Sidan.

But all of those sensed paled in comparison to the most unmistakable marker that you are now in the presence of the Almighty: Ibrahim returned with a bottle of rose water and filled our cupped hands as we sat, and prayed in the Ali Paşa Mosque.

The Sculptor's Marble Sends Regards...

I feel as though I am going to be posting about places a lot. That seems to be the trend. (As does lists...)

I'm an another one of those places that brings me peace. A coffeeshop. I love cafés. That will be an excellent part of Europe... sitting outside a café for hours. Why is that so taboo here? We get shooed out of our tables by waiters and bus boys because they want to make a bit more.

At diner the other night, there was a man playing an excellent acoustic set, and I was bantering with him for a while. My sister and mom left to walk back to the hotel, but I decided to stay for a few more songs. Apparently I was breaking the revered un-spoken rule of dine-pay-run, because I have never gotten so many looks in a restaurant before. Most were quizzical, as if people just couldn't wrap their heads around the fact that I was there just to listen. But some people, especially the wait staff, didn't share my appreciation for the guitarist, as evidenced by their less-than-pleasant glares. But hey, the music was good! Here's some of what he played:

(it's what I could remember, identify, and write down. And yes, it's another list)

-Layla - Clapton's Acoustic Version

-Cat's in the Cradle - Harry Chapin

-Pride & Joy - SRV

-Here Comes the Sun - The Beatles

-Wind Cries Mary - Jimi

-All Along the Watchtower - Jimi's Version (and he made this sound great! While trying to keep his voice down, and playing the electric solos on an acoustic)

-City of Angels - Red Hot Chili Peppers

-Old Man - Neil Young

-Melissa - Allman Brothers

See why I stayed for an encore? You should have been there.

Anyway, coffeeshops... I'm not sure what it is about the vibe; but I thoroughly enjoy it. Almost anywhere, I don't think that I have been in a café I didn't like. I mean, a Starbucks is a Starbucks, but there is still parts of it to enjoy. A local place is always the best though. Sometimes because of the coffee itself; always because of the people. Local shops have regulars, real regulars. And these people make for incredible people watching, and even better conversation. While I barista'd I had some of the most enjoyable conversations. Some of them maddened me, some of them made me chuckle after the fact, but I remember the majority of them because of the setting and the people themselves. I may not know them or their names, but that conversation is made because it was with them.

Before I go... I leave some recommendations. First, watch this:

http://www.youtube.com/user/ColdplayTV#play/uploads/0/BYtk1Z0UUuE

That has to be the best music video I've ever seen. Love every bit of it.

Secondly, go see (500) Days of Summer. I loved this movie. It's extremely well written, and it's presented better. It's got great wit, moments that make you smirk, and an excellent soundtrack. The script is spot-on. You can recognize many of the moments these characters experience in your own, and you resonate in wonderful harmony (or at least I did).